


Colours.

by desolationryro



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:49:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6656677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desolationryro/pseuds/desolationryro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s never liked Christmas or the way it’s so commercialised, sucking money out of every willing family across the globe. He hates mince pies too, which doesn’t really help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colours.

**Author's Note:**

> I just found this as a word document on my laptop and since I haven't written in forever, I didn't wanna let it go to waste. It's only short, but enjoy!

Ryan thinks in colour and when he wakes on Christmas its dark – _Black black black_.

He’s never liked Christmas or the way it’s so commercialised, sucking money out of every willing family across the globe.

He hates mince pies too, which doesn’t really help.

Z knocks on his door at lunch. When she sees him, sat in his pyjamas on the sofa, she tuts, shakes her head and puts a pre-cooked turkey on Ryan’s table. When she sits beside him, flicking on the TV, Ryan thinks _grey grey grey_ and tries to ignore that fact that maybe he’s not having the worst time ever. He still hates Christmas though. Hates it. 

She leaves eventually. Ryan says “Bye, Z”, purposefully shutting the door before she can flash him one of her stupid, pitiful smiles. He buries himself in to the corner of the sofa, pulling his knees to his chest, thinking I hate Christmas. Thinking _blue blue blue._

Then Brendon comes over and he knows that Z sent him. She’s trying to be a good friend, make sure he’s not lonely, Ryan knows this. But he still thinks go away and _red red red._ Brendon grins and Ryan frowns more. He probably looks like an idiot but it seems to dampen Brendon’s spirits which gives Ryan a sick sense of pride. The door clicks shut behind Brendon and it annoys Ryan. _Red red red._ He opens the door and slams it again, hoping that Brendon heard it, before disappearing in to his room. God, he hates Christmas.

Ryan can smell brussel sprouts and he hates brussel sprouts. He stomps in to the kitchen and sits at the table with a frown, huffing as if Brendon had cooked brussels on purpose. _Black black black_. But then Brendon turns around and flashes him a grin, natural and easy. Ryan thinks _grey grey grey_ and hates himself almost as much as he hates Christmas.

The dinner is good, even the brussel sprouts, but he doesn’t tell Brendon this. He also doesn’t tell Brendon that the way he rambles, grinning, frowning, moving his hands animatedly, makes Ryan think _yellow yellow yellow._ He helps Brendon wash up, not speaking. Brendon thinks in pictures, Ryan can tell. He flicks dish water at Ryan’s face, a smirk gracing his lips and Ryan’s head screams _yellow, pink, purple_ and Christmas with Brendon doesn’t feel like Christmas at all. It’s better. Ryan finds himself maybe not despising Christmas but quickly stops himself. He does his best to think of nothing.

“I got you a present” Brendon says “Z helped me choose” Ryan thinks _orange orange orange_ and _thank you_ but says nothing.

It turns out to be a record, an original Beatle’s record. Brendon sends him an uneasy smile and Ryan returns it. Or at least, he thinks he does. For the third time that day, he keeps his mouth shut, words to himself. Ryan got Brendon nothing, but hopes that the fact that he’s here, spending Christmas somewhere other than in his bedroom, is enough. He can feel Brendon’s gaze on the side of his face and tries not to concentrate on the colours rushing through his mind.

Brendon insists on staying the night and Ryan thinks _what?_ – The lack of colour goes unnoticed and he doesn’t argue. He and Brendon sit up until midnight watching Christmas movies and Ryan feels strange, warm, as Brendon sings along to whichever shitty movies are available. Then Brendon is asleep on his shoulder, snoring softly and Ryan thinks _peach, yellow, pastel_ , a soft sunset.  He hates Christmas a little less.

In the morning, Brendon still has his head on Ryan’s shoulder, arms around his waist. Ryan doesn’t think yellow or even orange. He thinks words.

He thinks about his Beatles' record, splayed out on the table, much like Brendon’s fingers over his stomach, and then goes back to sleep.

Ryan isn’t quite sure if he likes Christmas or if he just likes Brendon enough to get through it


End file.
